


Rivers and Roads

by ghostwise



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Light Angst, Zevran Arainai/Hamal Mahariel, also the dalish land boon is a thing, set decades into the future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 08:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20422943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwise/pseuds/ghostwise
Summary: Zevran catches up and reminisces.





	Rivers and Roads

Zevran deals with ghosts of the past every day. He regards them with an aged nostalgia, remembering clearly when they were more solid, more substantial in their influence—not the gauzy and transparent feelings they are today.

Things have changed. The _world_ has changed.

Today he can pour coffee, unhurried and uninterrupted, even as an unexpected tapping sounds at the window. He briefly thinks to reach for a weapon, any weapon, even the letter opener on the desk—but there’s no need for that. There hasn’t been, not for years. Not for decades. 

Zevran finishes pouring his coffee. Then he goes to investigate.

The tapping is persistent, but any worry he might have felt vanishes, upon seeing what it is. _Who _it is.

Behind the glass a raven peers up at him with golden eyes, bright, inquisitive, and Zevran opens the window to let a man clamber in, all draped fabrics and feathers and furs, and familiar eyes, and an even more familiar laugh.

“Hello! Thank you for letting me in! It was _freezing_ out there!”

“Kieran!”

Zevran chuckles warmly, returning his embrace. He’s tall and angular. He takes after his mother in that. “How fortunate that you arrive just as I’ve made a fresh pot of coffee. Come, sit, will you?”

_“Coffee,”_ Kieran gasps. Ah, but he takes after his father in some regards, too.

They drink their coffee, Zevran seated at his desk, and Kieran pacing restlessly around the office, draining two cups before Zevran has finished one. There is not much talking involved with this activity, just Kieran reading the titles of the volumes on Zevran’s bookshelf. He picks up a book of love poetry, and holds it up to Zevran, eyebrow raised.

“One never outgrows love poems, my boy,” Zevran says, gesturing with his cup.

“If you say so,” Kieran hums, setting it back. “I myself see little use in such things. ‘Tis an awful lot of effort, no?”

Zevran smiles and shrugs. “Your father liked them.”

“Oh, no.” Kieran shakes his head and shuffles away from the bookcase.

Zevran feels an urge to laugh. It is Morrigan and Hamal, talking to him in turns.

The thought makes him wistful. He is barely prepared for the feeling, and all he can do is let it claim the moment, and finally pass with a quiet acceptance, sipping at his coffee, patiently regarding Kieran.

“I always enjoy your visits,” he says finally. Kieran blinks up at him, beaming, as he continues. “To what do I owe today’s?”

“Oh, you know,” Kieran waves a hand elaborately. “I was in the area. I wanted to check in with you.”

“Ah, truly?”

“Quite!” Kieran all too quickly drops into the seat across from his desk. He steeples his fingers, looking at Zevran intently. “You have been well?” he asks.

“Never better.”

“And things in Var’myathan, things are going smoothly?”

“I stay away from politics in my advanced age, but from what I hear, yes. Very smoothly.”

“I hear whispers, you know.” Kieran leans forward, unblinking. “Change is coming to the world. Not at our bidding or our involvement, but then, these things never are. I should like you to be… prepared.”

Zevran cannot help but smile, the lines around his eyes deepening in amusement. “Again?” he asks. “You don’t say. Seems the world is changing all the damn time. It has changed, what, three times in my lifetime? And I with it. You need not worry so about me.”

He pauses, and with that said, takes another sip of coffee. “How is your mother?”

“Well, I presume,” Kieran shakes his head. “Haven’t seen her.”

“Is that her choice, or yours?”

Kieran hops off his seat, giving Zevran the distinct impression that it’s the latter. His ominous warning delivered, he simply stands there, fidgeting. Always nervous in closed spaces, much like his father.

“I just wanted to check in on you. I am glad you are doing well.” Kieran sets his empty cup on Zevran’s desk. “I should be going soon.”

Zevran almost thinks that is all. But then Kieran sighs, and his voice softens. “I would like to see him, before I leave. Accompany me?”

Zevran Arainai, hahren, retired ambassador, ex-Crow, ex-assassin, widower, absent step-father to this strange man who is no longer young himself… none of these titles or roles seem to help in this moment. He simply nods, feeling a small ache under his chest, masking it with a smile.

“Of course,” he says.

Together, they descend through Zevran’s modest and homey estate. Kieran, already clad in layer upon layer of rags and finery, has no need for a coat, but Zevran bundles up before they leave. 

Snow falls in flurries upon the ground outside, catching in Zevran’s silver hair. The coffee had been well-timed. It’s a silent walk, and a long one.

“Dalish cemeteries are so beautiful,” Kieran breathes as they turn a corner, and a canopy of trees comes into view. It is as if a small forest has taken root within the city.

Back when the clans wandered—and as is still the case for those who opted to remain nomadic—the fallen were buried where they died. Here, each tree represents a deceased citizen of Var’myathan. It is like walking through an arboretum.

Some plots are adorned by small statues or signs. Some of the trees have ribbons strung along the branches, or names and messages painted upon the trunk (never carved, for to damage a funerary tree is disrespectful).

Finally, after passing by dozens of saplings and oak trees and even a few fruit trees, they arrive at the Hero of Ferelden’s grave, an alder tree standing ostentatiously with a plaque and a monument at its base.

Kieran hurries forward quickly, but Zevran hangs back. It has been too long since his last visit, and it almost shames him, but—no, nothing about Hamal could shame him. He would certainly understand.

The artist did a good job capturing his husband’s likeness. After a moment, Zevran smiles and draws near, reaching up to brush dirt and snow off his beloved’s statue.

_“Hola, amor,”_ he says softly. _“No sabes cómo te extraño.”_

Kieran has wandered off, circling his father’s tree, humming some wordless tune.

Zevran, tired, sits at the base of the tree and closes his eyes to remember.

Being old is surreal. It almost feels like a dream at times. He has a veritable encyclopedia of moments and memories he would rather peruse, than to live through more. This is especially true here, at Hamal’s resting place, where he cannot help but remember their times during the Blight, their long years in Antiva, their wedding days—plural! For they were married in an Antivan chantry first, then bonded in a traditional Dalish ceremony later.

It has been far too long, and many of their companions are gone, too. Alistair ventured to the Deep Roads many years ago. Lavellan passed this summer, and her daughter, Paloma, sent word through mail. Zevran remembers that funeral, and his husband’s, too.

Bad memories, good memories. More good than bad, though.

When Zevran opens his eyes again, Kieran is sitting, cross-legged, in front of him.

“Good! You’re still alive,” Kieran quips.

Zevran frowns, annoyed. “Of course I’m still alive! _Amor, mira_, do you see your son? Do you hear this?” he whispers aside to the statue. “Terrible. As if I could not still strike down any foe, with my stealth and daggers.”

Kieran and Zevran then laugh despite the cold.

“I like to think he can see us,” Kieran offers finally. He takes a breath, continuing shyly. “I really wanted to visit and tell him—you, as well—that I am going by his name now. For a few years, in fact.”

The news does come as a surprise. Zevran blinks and smiles as Kieran continues.

“Kieran Mahariel. Do you think that’s alright? Is there something, I don’t know, formal I should file? I doubt my birth records exist anywhere, but… I never had a surname. Morrigan said it would be fine. I think she likes it, even. I should go see her next I suppose. Father would agree.”

“He would be proud of you,” Zevran tells him, listening to him ramble. Kieran fidgets and smiles.

And here, the visit hits on one of those unseen emotional snags. The brink of a goodbye, the need for assurance, perhaps. Zevran looks at Kieran and takes inventory.

Eyes, Morrigan’s. Mouth and nose, Hamal’s. Powerful magic, a need for solitude, Morrigan’s. Vallaslin, over his left eye, at his own insistence. Ears, softly pointed.

“Everything will be fine, Kieran,” Zevran Arainai says. “I’m doing well. Your mother will be happy to see you, as I am happy, and thankful, for you coming to see us.”

“I know,” Kieran agrees, though he sounds uncertain. “Creators. You and my parents had already done so much by the time you were my age. How did you figure any of it out?”

“Poorly,” Zevran laughs. “You must play these things by ear. That’s the nature of living.”

“Then I hope I continue to make you proud,” Kieran says, and he pulls himself out of the snow, casting one final look at The Hero of Ferelden’s tree. “I’ll try to write more often,” he adds, and Zevran nods, though he knows it is unlikely.

With a smile, Kieran flits into the branches as a raven once more, and Zevran calls to him.

“Safe travels, d’alen.”

**Author's Note:**

> This scene surprised me at first, but I've become very fond of it. Title is from a song by The Head and the Heart, which gives me the same wistful sort of vibes I felt while writing this.
> 
> You can also find this on tumblr: https://ghostwise.tumblr.com/post/186169194024/zevran-deals-with-ghosts-of-the-past-every-day 
> 
> Stop by and say hi! I tend to ramble about my DA World State quite a lot.


End file.
